


Black Treacle

by hatsunemikuwithagun



Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Possibly body horror?, Syrupy synonyms, and brought up bugs but its not., i kinda went a little hog on the last part, kinda self harm sorry bout that, oh shit also, only just realised what i wrote sorry, that bad?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-30
Updated: 2019-05-30
Packaged: 2020-03-29 20:05:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19026991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hatsunemikuwithagun/pseuds/hatsunemikuwithagun
Summary: First encounters happened through the crackling waves of a radio. Drenched with charisma and dripping with sweetness to the point of sickness, that voice slithered through the symphony of static to propose the one thing he longed for. Knowledge.





	Black Treacle

**Author's Note:**

> yaknow ive had this massive (not really massive only like 454g) tin of lyles black treacle sitting in my cupboard because i made bread with it one time and ive been in a mood and kinda fixating on it so heres something i wrote in the space of an hour because i havent actually finished any of my dont starve wips lol  
> also nothing registers sacchariferous as a word? which sucks because i love that word  
> also another thing theres no point to this im just feeling edgy on a thursday

First encounters happened through the crackling waves of a radio. Drenched with charisma and dripping with sweetness to the point of sickness, that voice slithered through the symphony of static to propose the one thing he longed for. Knowledge.

Through sugar-coated lies and candied compliments, the voice through the radio coerced him into building a door. Realistically, one wouldn’t call it coercion, there weren’t any threats and certainly no violence. The man in the attic went along with no questions asked or doubt in mind. The fact of the matter still remained, he built the door and he gained the knowledge, all the while maintaining companionship with the distant voice in the speakers.

In retrospect he should have questioned it. He should have questioned how those unfamiliar sounds could hear his replies, asked himself what the noises were getting out of this, seen how sacchariferous the words that leaked from the speaker were, but hindsight would get him nowhere.

At the very least he could put a face to the tune that bled from his radio. Wherever Maxwell followed there was that sickeningly sweet scent, whether it was an after effect from the world around him or if he had always carried it, he could never know. What he did know was that it nauseated him to the point of breaking down.

It frightened him far more than the shapes just out of sight, or the ever-looming threat of starvation, possibly even more so than the waft of roses that followed the creature in the night. Knowing who was behind the perfume, knowing that it only turned up at the worst of moments, knowing it was only ever a stale reminder of failure, knowing it to always be accompanied by that _phrase_. That _terrible, familiar phrase._ It made him ill.

The fragrance itself carried such a weight, so unexpected and overwhelming that it left you wanting to heave. It wasn’t that it was awful, but it was so overwhelmingly sweet to the point of bitterness.

It was as if he was a child. A child that had wandered into the kitchen to find that distinctive red tin, baring a lion and labelling itself ‘black treacle’. Curiosity would wring the cat by its neck, and he’d taste a spoonful of the glossy black liquid contained inside. Immediate intensity would hit his tongue, so bitter-sweet that one could hardly swallow down the dark syrup.

Maxwell was that tin of black treacle sitting open on the kitchen table, dressed up to look alluring, dripping pitch black at the edges and carrying that intensely sweet flavour that made you sick to the stomach. Each time they met he’d forget that scent and his own intrusive interest would rear its ugly head and he’d let that sickening bouquet flood his senses, as he’d do every Christmas when that tin would sit on the table.

It shouldn’t have surprised him when it started following him around too.

It clung to his clothing, no matter how many times he’d wash the separate articles they’d dry with that same aroma woven between the fabric, no matter what other horrific scents he’d encounter he’d come up with the same lingering, sugary scent.

From his clothing it seeped into him, it was in his hair, under his skin, trapped among the marrow in his bones, either he was losing his mind, or his very blood had turned into that slow oozing molasses. He could feel it leaking from his wounds, but fear wouldn’t allow him to look or treat it. It would leak a pour from him and there wasn’t anything he could do to stop it.

He’d scratch at his skin furiously to try and prevent the sensation, scratch until his skin was raw and his nails would leave gashes for the treacle to run freely through. It wouldn’t stop, he couldn’t keep his mind on surviving or trying to escape because he could only focus on that slow running syrup under his skin and working its way out.

He’d prefer anything to the unbearable innocence of something so sticky and smooth running over and through him. He’d rather insects crawl just beneath his skin or have an unbearable itch that wouldn’t relent. Instead he was stuck with the black treacle and the mocking tune of a pump organ.


End file.
